A sense of consummation undeserved,
Desire fulfilled beyond dreams, completion
Humbly accepted,—a proud and grateful nation
Took the reward of purpose had not swerved,
But steadily before
Saw out, with equal mind, through alternation
Of hope and doubt—a four-year purge of fire
Changing with sore
Travail the flawed spirit, cleansing desire.
And glad was I:
Glad—who had seen
By Somme and Ancre too many comrades lie.
It was as if the Woman’s spirit moved
That multitude, never of Man that pays
So lightly for the treasure of his days—
Of some woman that too greatly had beloved
Yet, willing, half her care of life foregone;
Best half of being losing with her son,
Beloved, beautiful, born-of-agony One....
The dull skies wept still. Drooped suddenly
Flags all. No triumph there.
Belgium, the Stars and Stripes, Gaul, Italy,
Britain, assured Mistress, Queen of the Sea,
Forlorn colours showed; rags glory-bare.
Night came, starless, to blur all things over
That strange assort of Life;
Sister, and lover,
Brother, child, wife,
Parent—each with his thought, careless or passioned,
Of those who gave their frames of flesh to cover
From spoil their land and folk, desperately fashioned
Fate stubborn to their will.
Rain fell, miserably, miserably, and still
The strange crowd clamoured till late, eddied, clamoured,
Mixed, mused, drifted.... The Day of Victory.
PASSIONATE EARTH
(To J. W. H.)
Where the new-turned ploughland runs to clean
Edges of sudden grass-land, lovely, green—
Music, music clings, music exhales,
And inmost fragrance of a thousand tales.
There the heart lifts, the soul takes flight to sing
High at Heaven-gate; but loth for entering
Lest there such brown and green it never find;
Nor feel the sting
Of such a beauty left so far behind.
THE POPLAR
(To Micky)
A tall slim poplar
That dances in
A hidden corner
Of the old garden,
What is it in you
Makes communion
With this wind of Autumn,
The clouds, the sun?
You must be lonely
Amidst round trees
With their matron-figures
And stubborn knees,
Casting hard glances
Of keen despite
On the lone girl that dances
Silvery white.
But you are dearer
To sky and earth
Than lime-trees, plane-trees
Of meaner birth.
Your sweet shy beauty
Dearer to us
Than tree-folk, worthy,
Censorious.